Of Kidnapping, Livestream and How Homophobia Kills
by All Galimatias
Summary: John is not the only Watson capable of being bad-ass.


A familiar iPhone ring met Sally Donovan's ears, turning her heart to stone and ice simultaneously, though her expression remained clear. She, and half a dozen others, moved to look in the direction the sound was coming from, the jacket pocket of one Sherlock Holmes.

Not giving any sign that he'd noticed the attention of the room turn to him, Sherlock pulled out the pink covered phone that remained their only consistent connection to James Moriarty. His thumb slid across the phones screen and selected loud speaker, casting a sideways glance at John as he did so (Sally had moments when she wondered what those looks meant, almost like they were asking for permission but really not. Then she remembered that she didn't give a damn what their secret eye code was). One airy glass room in Scotland Yard, at twenty-three minutes past one held its breath.

"Hi Sherlock." Jim's half-droning, half- singing voice filled the otherwise silent room. "How are you?"

"Calling up for another playdate?" Sherlock replied, voice steady and confident, though he was poised as if about to spring into action.

"Well you see, no, actually," was the response, amused and unhurried. "I've been playing on the computer you see, and I really understand what all these parents are saying about it taking over their children's lives. It's very unhealthy, don't you think?"

Lestrade opened his mouth to speak but Sherlock held up an imperiously dismissive hand, not even looking in his direction.

"How does this concern me?"

"Do you have a proper computer, Sherlock? Not just that dinky little thing you carry everywhere, a laptop or something?"

"…Yes."

"Do you have livestream?" The call disconnected.

"…Livestream?" John said blankly.

"Laptop," Sherlock ordered dropping the phone onto the table. "Now."

Lestrade gave Anderson a look and the forensic scientist let out a groan. A sharp order later and Anderson had reluctantly traipsed off in search of a computer.

"Livestream, an online video streaming platform, available for anyone to watch," Sherlock was reeling off facts under his breath, but somehow still loud enough to make everyone listen to him.

"So he's looking for an audience?" Lestrade suggested, watching the detective pace the room, occasionally spinning round with his hands locked behind his head.

"Why is Anderson so slow," Sherlock moaned, completely ignoring him. "John, next time you go."

John rolled his eyes and for the hundredth time Sally wondered why he put up with the obnoxious man.

The door opened, revealing Anderson and a switched on laptop, at the same time as the phone buzzed on the table. This time it was John who picked it up.

"Text. I think it's a link- ," he announced and Sherlock promptly snatched the device away. He began rapidly reading out the web address and John, realising what he was expecting with an exasperated sigh, took the computer from Anderson with considerably more courtesy, and sat down as he started typing it into a browser.

He pushed the screen back and let Sherlock sit in his seat, everyone crowding round as the page loaded.

The video started to play.

Sally couldn't recognise the location, but it was obviously a motorway. Traffic screeched through the speakers as background noise. In the foreground, above the cars they couldn't see, there was a bridge made up of concrete and metal, though the railing they were focused on was made up of plywood as a temporary repair. Two people were clearly visible.

One was a man, maybe in his thirties, leaning lazily against the railing opposite, one hand holding a cigarette with obvious familiarity. The other hand was holding a gun with ease that flowed off the figure in waves, a gun that was pointed straight at a gagged and terrified looking woman.

She was shorter than average, Sally thought as her throat constricted as it did every time she saw a situation like this one, her hair cropped short and- probably dyed- a pretty blonde shade, wearing nondescript black working trousers and a rather hideous mismatching jumper. Where there should have been a railing behind her was empty space. The wooden planks had been neatly sawn away. There was a rope around her neck; the hair on the back of Sally's neck rose as she clenched her teeth, eyes following the rest of the rope to where it pooled by her ankles and then firmly wrapped around one of the remaining bars.

Sally was reminded in that instant how much she sometimes hated her job.

Sherlock let out a low hiss between his teeth. Sally gave him a surprised look; she'd never seen the detective give any sign of being affected by a case before. Then she caught the look on John's face and took a physical step back.

"Oh my God, Harry," he whispered numbly, expression contorted into total horror.

"Not used one of these before," the lilting voice was back. The camera shook as it was picked up and turned round, the blurry pixilated face of Jim coming into view. "This is fun though, isn't it?" he said gleefully.

"What's the game now, what do I need to do?" Sherlock snapped at the computer.

There was a pause, and then Moriarty grinned. "I think you'll have said something there, but I'm going to point out that I can't see or hear you. It's not a two way thing, Sherlock, honestly. But really, don't you love the set up?" the camera turned back to the now amused looking man and petrified woman.

"I think I'm quite good at this. Jim from I.T, Jim the camera man, they've both got quite nice rings don't they?"

Sherlock let out a frustrated noise. "What, what's the point of this?"

"What's the point?" The joking tone had evaporated. "Well, I like to think I always keep my promises."

"Promis-" Lestrade started to speak but Moriarty kept talking straight over him.

"I promised I'd burn the heart out of you. Originally I was going to get your tame little pet into a nice church somewhere and set fire to him, but then I thought, that'd probably only make you angry. Miserable, yes, but that's not all I'm going for. People dying is easier to get over when you have a lovely little objective like revenge. I thought, hmm, Jim, how do we get round this? Then I had a wonderful idea.

"How about going after someone you don't really care about all that much, but darling John does? Burn little Watson's heart out and you'd fall to pieces. He's too stupid to ever find me, and would be listlessly moping around for the rest of his miserable life. You might try to find me but hey, you didn't care about the poor deceased lovely. Not as much driving motivation. So John would be crushed, you'd be crushed and the poor person who had the misfortune to have a fool that made friends with Sherlock Holmes as a brother, well. They'd certainly be crushed.

"Harriet Watson," Moriarty said, tone overflowing with self-satisfaction as he turned to look at the women behind him. "Sister of one John Watson."

Realisation hit Sally like a brick as John flinched, letting out a noise of pain.

"Alcoholic," Moriarty said, setting the camera back down and walking over to his hostage. The man with him moved out of his way, hand moving to be more ready on his gun.

"Lesbian," he sounded amused, sending Harriet- Harry, that's what John had called her and it made more sense with this new information- a charming, snake-like smile. "Dirty bitch," he said pleasantly. "I wonder if we could convince you otherwise, hmm?"

Sally made a shocked sound that was mingled with disgust, a noise echoed by the other officers. The usually easy-going doctor let out a noise like a snarl, but was planning to do next was forgotten by what how his sister reacted.

It was surprising because usually a gagged woman with a noose around her neck and a gun pointing at her would be eager not to offend or irritate her kidnappers because it would slightly increase the chances of them coming out alive. They do not usually jerk forwards to smash their forehead against the malevolent looking man in front of them.

Moriarty let out a yelp, shocked, and went reeling back, one hand coming up to nurse his forehead. Looking furious- and as if she had no idea what she was doing and working purely on instinct- Harry moved forwards after him, her hands free and going up to un-gag herself. Before the man with the gun had time to recover from his surprise and fire it Harry had rammed into him, sending him careening back into the wooden railing. His momentum meant he didn't stop there; Sebastian Moran crashed through the wood, dropping out of the camera shot. Harry let out a animalistic yell that was somewhere between elation and repulsion, spinning back to face a stunned Moriarty with her hands moving to her neck and trying to loosen the rope still tied there.

There was a moment where neither of them moved, then Moriarty's lips curved up into a mad grin and he ran at her. Harry looked frozen.

"Move!" Sally shouted at the screen, ignoring Anderson jump somewhere behind her.

The woman did. Half a second before Moriarty would reach her, she dropped sideways to the floor, fingers pulling on the noose. Moriarty tried to stop and would have managed it, had it not been for the fact that the rope tied to Harry went taunt just as his foot was about to hit the ground. He tripped and went unhindered straight through the gap that his subordinate had made. With a furious and disbelieving shout, the master criminal fell through the air and out of sight.

There was a stunned silence on both sides of the camera. Slowly, Harry picked herself up off the floor, succeeding in pulling away the rope as she went. She looked grim, but focused, leaning heavily against the wooden railing that wasn't smashed.

"John," she said steadily, looking round at the camera. "It would be really appreciated if you could come and pick me up. I need a drink."

Half of the Yarders watching broke into applause.


End file.
